Still Fools
by scylla-charybdis
Summary: A brief scene in which Arwen and Legolas mourn Aragorn...rated for safety - this is my first one, so it's not really refined.


  
First of all, I own nothing but the idea, and I'm not making any money off of this – if I were, it probably wouldn't have such a sad ending!  
  
_A/N: I have no clue if the elves actually practice such a thing, but call it creative license. Also, if you hate Arwen and/or Eowyn, I would suggest that you not read this... no matter how much you advocate the Aragorn/Legolas pairing - I've given them all a claim on the ranger. Aragorn has a generous heart._  


**Still Fools**

  
  


He's standing at the window again. I can read sadness in every line of his body, in each of the tiny wrinkles beginning to show around his eyes and mouth. I can see his pain, as he can see mine.   


What were we thinking, both of us, to let such a wonderful soul pass out of our reach?   


"A copper for your thoughts, Golden One," I murmur.   


He doesn't answer; he just stands there watching other lives pass us by. The midmorning sun slants across the window frame, throwing his angular features into sharp relief; brightening the sorrow in his dark green eyes. I half believe that he has chosen to ignore my question in favor of his own, melancholy thoughts.   


Eventually, though, he speaks. His eyes never leave the busy streets outside, but I know he is not watching those who pass beneath our casement. He is thinking - mourning.   


"We're fools, Undomiel. We are fools and cowards."   


Fine gilt strands float in the sunlight when he shakes his head, "We let go of something - someone - who we truly cared about. We should have had the courage to stay and stand beside him; it would have saved us all much heartbreak."   


Is what he says true?   


No, it is not, and we both know it. That is only his grief speaking, and I let it pass.  


"I am very serious, Arwen."  


He speaks as if he can read my thoughts, and, after the long centuries we have spent in shared sorrow, perhaps he can. He turns around suddenly, and his dark stare locks with mine.   


"Legolas," I speak reproachfully, silently reminding him of our agreement. We will not second-guess the decision that we made in times long past. "There was no other way."  
It is my turn to glare, to challenge with icy blue eyes, his flawed logic. "we could only have stood beside him as retainers - courtiers. We would never be allowed to love him."  


He opens his mouth to protest, but I continue forcefully, right over him.  


"We are elves! It was hard enough for the nobles to accept us as temporary guests at the coronation; they would never have tolerated us as permanent members of the Court, much less as the King's lovers!"  


A flash of hurt twists his face adding another tiny line. In an instant I feel guilt for having hit this open wound.  


"They need never have found out!" he snaps harshly, "Gods know that Eowyn was understanding enough, she wouldn't have said a thing, once they'd got an heir!"  


I laugh - freely, if more than a little bitter. In my mind, an image of the Queen appears, draped in the splendor of a sheltered elf maiden who is approaching her...I think the closest translation is "wedding night" without the handfasting.  


Among our people, this is a night of which any maid should be proud, and the male that she chooses is granted much honor. In that night, she both becomes a lady of our people, and earns a right to what wisdom she may gather. It is, in several senses, a loss of innocence.   


Then she learns that it is the first of many such losses that she will experience until, when she is ready to move on, she is truly wise.  


That wisdom prompts me, "He was the king. Every day, he lived under the eye of his people and his court. We could not have escaped the rumors and gossips for any length of time - or have you forgotten what the Court is like? And we'd never be more than servants - at best, subjects - at least in public. None of us; not you, not I, and most of all, not Aragorn could live with that."  


The once-prince of Mirkwood returns to the window, leaning tiredly against the frame. "We're still fools," he sighs.  


This time, as I watch his form and read sorrow in every line of his body, I do not refute that claim.  



End file.
